


Good Morning, Beautiful

by Dustbunny3



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Happy Sex, M/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7658053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunny3/pseuds/Dustbunny3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chromedome and Rewind wake up and have sex. That's it, that's the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Morning, Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at robot porn *confetti* There was originally going to be angst but then I was like, nah.

It isn’t often that Chromedome comes out of recharge peacefully, so when he does, he relishes it. He lays still and feels each system come online in turn, memories– uncommonly all his own– slotting into their proper places. Rewind is a pleasant weight warm at his side and draped half across him, a leg thrown over Chromedome’s abdomen and one hand resting over his spark chamber.

Pleasure buzzes restless beneath Chromedome’s plating, starting where Rewind touches him and spreading. It gets louder, more insistent, when he turns his head to look down at his conjunx. He typically falls asleep to Rewind whispering reassurances and wakes to Rewind already trying to soothe away the latest nightmare; it isn’t often that he gets to see Rewind like this, comfortable and content in recharge. Without a thought but with much care, he runs his hands over this sight to cement it into reality.

One hand is pinned by Rewind’s knee. Chromedome frees it, dragging out the contact, and settles it over the hand on his chest. His other hand, curled around Rewind’s upper arm as they rested, he lets run free. He trails affection out along the underside of Rewind’s shoulder spaulder and then back in along the top, meanders down Rewind’s back and over his side, smooths circles into his hip and down his leg. Chromedome touches as far as he can without jostling and then finds a new path back up. He strokes his fingertips along the base of Rewind’s neck, skips over the back of his neck proper to follow the lines of his helm around to his face.

Rewind trills beneath the touch as he comes online, so quiet that Chromedome almost can’t hear it past the purring of his own engine. Chromedome’s fingers curl back fast into his palm, chased by the shame of having disturbed him. He lays as still and as silent as he can, his spark eating itself in his chest as his mind chases itself in circles. Rewind doesn’t get this often either and here Chromedome’s taken it away from him. Rewind nuzzles a string of irritation against Chromedome’s collar.

“Domey?” Rewind murmurs. It comes out tinny with half-sleep, the two syllables saturated with feedback; his annoyance carries just the same. Before Chromedome can apologize, Rewind looks up and asks, more clearly now, “Why’d you stop?”

His hand is on Rewind again before he even manages to say, “Sorry,” relief loosening joints gone stiff with worry. He leans to touch his forehead to Rewind’s as best he can at this angle and swallows a giddy sound when Rewind leans up to meet him. Rewind turns the hand in Chromedome’s so that he can lace their fingers together. His free hand, hooked under Chromedome’s arm, pets idly at Chromedome’s shoulder tire.

“Do you have any plans for today?” Rewind asks.

“No,” Chromedome says without even bothering to pull up his calendar. He doesn’t think he has anything scheduled, anyway, and it isn’t as important as Rewind if he does. “None.”

“Good,” Rewind says. His hand slips up to stroke between Chromedome’s tire and shoulder as the light of his visor dims. It flickers with mischief when Chromedome’s fans click on. Again, he says, “Good.”

Then Rewind sits up and Chromedome makes a sound of protest, clamping down on the fingers wound with his even as he lets Rewind slip out from under his other hand. Rewind warbles reassurance back at him, fingers ghosting along his side.

“I’m not going anywhere, Domey,” he promises, his own fingers squeezing around Chromedome’s. “I just wanna see you.”

True to his word, he settles himself astride Chromedome, knees closing snug around his chest. The fingers of Rewind’s free hand continue their walk, tracing along seams as he gazes down at Chromedome gazing up at him. In the corner of his vision, Chromedome is aware of a red light aglow and his fans spin faster.

“You’re recording,” he says, words laced with static.

“I always record.”

He always does. He always records and it never, never fails to scramble Chromedome’s processor that he would bother. Chromedome considers, as he usually does, looking directly into the camera, offering a grin or a wink of his visor to the future Rewind looking back on this moment, but he can’t bear to take his attention from the present Rewind right in front of him to do it. He considers posing or playing up his reactions, doing something to make this worth recording, but the knowledge that Rewind already considers him worth recording, just like this, overwhelms the thought. It always does.

“Rewind,” he says. He runs his thumb along the seam of Rewind’s wrist, runs his free hand up Rewind’s leg and over his chest, cups it around Rewind’s cheek. There’s so much he wants to say and the only word he can wrap his vocalizer around is, “Rewind.”

“I’m here,” Rewind says, a reassurance and a promise backed up by his hand settling over the one on his cheek. “I’m here, Domey, I’ve got you– tell me what you want.”

“You.”

Rewind huffs a laugh, a little pleased and a little frustrated. He knows he isn’t going to get a better answer than that, Chromedome can see it in the fond shake of his head. Sure enough, he doesn’t ask again. Instead, he catches a grip on the hand on his cheek and turns to nuzzle into it, “I love you,” strumming through his face plate into Chromedome’s palm. It travels as a shiver up the length of Chromedome’s arm and Rewind follows it with his fingers. He plays along the rim of Chromedome’s tire and slowly, so slowly, works his way into the gap where it meets his shoulder, teasing touches just shy of where he knows Chromedome likes them the most.

His own hand freed, Chromedome touches in turn. He’d like to tease the way Rewind does, but he doesn’t have the self-control. He presses his fingertips down along the seams in Rewind’s neck and collar, takes a moment to lay his palm flat just over Rewind’s spark chamber so that he can feel his spark pulsing hot beneath the plating. Intent on not disappointing, Chromedome moves on, curling his fingers into seams and dragging down Rewind’s torso, around his waist and up his back. Charge nips at his fingertips as Rewind arches above him, trembling with the effort of keeping his camera trained where he wants it.

Being allowed to touch Rewind is as good as being touched by Rewind– better, maybe. Chromedome feels light with the liberty of it, like he’d float away if he didn’t have Rewind holding him down to the recharge slab. His fingers scribble nonsense into the back of Rewind’s hand still held in his and he strokes his thumb deeper into Rewind’s wrist. His free hand wanders down Rewind’s back, over his hip and then on further down to his leg.

Rewind moans, the sound broken up by a series of beeps and threading off into a whine. “No fair,” he complains as he often does, voice pitched with the effort of being heard beyond static. “You’ve got a longer reach than I do.”

“Your fingers are smaller,” Chromedome fires back, shoulder rolling in an attempt to lead said fingers where he wants them. “You could be touching more than you are.”

“Oh?” Rewind asks, voice alight with false innocence. From his vantage point, it’s easy for him to roll with the motion, keeping his touch right on the edge. “Sorry, is there somewhere else you want me to touch?”

Chromedome whimpers, the words to express what he wants eaten up by self-consciousness as they are wont to be. The light of Rewind’s visor softens in response, but it doesn’t feel like mercy when he finally reaches into the gap between shoulder and tire to scrape practiced touches over sensitive seams. Pleasure ripples from Chromedome’s shoulder, charge crackling beneath his plating, and he cries out, head thrown back and spinal strut arching off the slab so that Rewind has to dig his fingers in to keep himself steady. He just happens, of course, to dig his fingers in in exactly the right way. Chromedome bites down on another shout, mangling it into a high whine as his body tries to twist itself into and away from the touch at once. One hand clenching around the fingers twined with his and the other fastening down on Rewind’s hip, he holds on for dear life.

His engine revs hard enough to make the slab tremble and Rewind’s knees clamp tighter around his chest as he undulates above him, riding the vibrations. Putting more weight on Chromedome’s shoulder than he strictly needs to– not that Chromedome is about to complain– Rewind adjusts himself so that he can toe at the struts on Chromedome’s hips, working them like joysticks in tight circles. Chromedome’s fans stutter and stall before jumping up another setting and he digs his heels into the slab, seeking leverage. His aft actually leaves and stays off the slab as he bucks into the attention. Plating flared to disperse heat catches as they move against each other and they both moan, both move to make it happen again. It adds an intimacy and an intensity that causes sparks to flash and pop between them.

Never mind how it feels to have Rewind’s weight rocking between his shoulder and his hips, the sight of Rewind moving above him is almost too much. Chromedome has to override three requests from his optical array to shut down, to dull the sensory input. Worry that he may be pushed to the point of missing something grabs hold of his wits and restores his power over the hand on Rewind’s hip. He gives it a fond squeeze and then moves drags it down to the juncture where hip and thigh meet, dipping his fingers in and rubbing firm over the joint.

Rewind swears and all but collapses forward, pinching Chromedome’s fingers with the motion. He tries to apologize but Chromedome has already adjusted to suit the new position, hand cupped around the top of Rewind’s thigh and fingers groping between the blocks of his aft, tripping all of Rewind’s favorite wires; the words are lost in a garble of syllables. Through it all, still he doesn’t let up, fingers keeping busy at Chromedome’s shoulder and feet shifting at Chromedome’s hips. It stokes the flames that have taken over Chromedome’s spark chamber; his fans are whining as they strive for a speed they weren’t built for and they’re doing him not one ounce of good.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Rewind chants, words hardly audible for all the static spat from his vocalizer. His hips are twitching rapidly, caught between Chromedome’s hand and the revving of his engine. “Come on, Domey, let me see you.”

“You first,” Chromedome insists, almost a plea.

“Let me see you,” Rewind says again, his touch relentless. The fingers of the hand still holding Chromedome’s scrabble, thumb dragging across Chromedome’s palm; their grip is too tight to effectively talk hand, but the meaning is clear just the same. Rewind looks Chromedome dead in the eye and commands as much as says, “Let me see you and that’ll be all I need.”

The words strike Chromedome’s spark straight on and he shouts out a jumble of gibberish as the heat centered there blazes through his frame, licking his every nervecircuit. His heel tires squeal as they drag up along the slab and he curls up from his middle at the same time he pulls Rewind down toward him.

Rewind continues to hold himself up and away even as his systems whine and his ventilation stutters through his own overload. It’s the same thing every time they use this position; he’s still recording, of course, and still intent on keeping Chromedome’s face in focus. As with every time before, the realization floods through Chromedome’s lines as a second, smaller wave of pleasure and laps warm around his spark.

He lays back and stretches his legs out on the slab, parted to help disperse heat. He rests his hand on Rewind’s hip, thumb rubbing circles into the plating. Rewind skims his hand from Chromedome’s shoulder to his face, stroking his cheek as his visor shines affection down on him.

Chromedome’s engine purrs and he wraps his arm around Rewind, pulling him in more insistently now. He says, “Alright, you’ve recorded plenty. Come here.”

This time, Rewind goes without protest or hesitation, stretching himself out over top of Chromedome and nuzzling from his forehead to his chin and then over into the the crook of his neck. He makes himself comfortable there and Chromedome leans his own head against him as he settles his arm across Rewind’s lower back, murmuring an, “I love you,” against his forehead. Rewind cuddles their clasped hands between them, his other hand resting lightly at Chromedome’s side. The two of them lay there together, companionable quiet settling in beneath the whir of fans and the ping of cooling metal.

It’s as Chromedome’s fans have reset down to just below medium speed that he feels a hum drawn out against his neck, pitched in consideration.

“What is it?” he asks, the last syllable hitched when he feels the barest brush of fingers along the seam between the upper and lower segments of his torso.

“You know,” says Rewind, conversational with a dash of mischief, as he presses his fingertips into that seam, “I don’t think I did get enough footage.”

Chromedome arches at the touch, already warming up to a second take.


End file.
